The Root of All Evil: Dentistry
by Aro
Summary: Preseries. Dean gets his wisdom teeth out and Sam does his brother thing. Completed.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural_.

Warnings: Plot? What _plot_? Boring. Really. Nothing happens. This was to keep me occupied after I had gotten my wisdom teeth out last year. I started writing to it again earlier this year after I had broken my foot. I found it and figured I'd share it for the hell of it.

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The waiting room chairs were plastic, not cushioned, and terribly small. Sam Winchester shifted uncomfortably, flat out disregarding his father's low, icily toned commands to "sit still." He was eight seconds away from sliding off the cheap chair and sitting cross-legged on the uncarpeted floor.

The room was rather confined; closed blinds covered the only window, and there were only two doors, both of which were closed. There wasn't much space, only about a dozen chairs, and they took up most of the room, along with a water cooler in the corner, next to a wobbly wooden magazine rack.

There was a blown up picture of a smile hanging directly across from Sam. It hung crookedly, and was really starting to creep him out. He unintentionally studied it, noting the monstrous bleached white teeth, the darkened mole above the person's bright red upper lip. He continued to squirm in his seat, averting his eyes elsewhere.

Dean, Sam's older brother, sat two seats away, relaxed; his head tilted back and eyes closed. He hummed until John told him to "knock it off." After that, about sixteen seconds of silence passed until he started to click his tongue, and swish spit back and forth in his mouth, but their father put an end to that with a mere glare.

"How much longer?" Sam asked pitifully, his hands impatiently fidgeting with the broken zipper of his jacket. John wordlessly gestured over to the magazine rack, and the fourteen-year-old old rolled his eyes. "Great. My options are endless; _Highlights_ or _Sport Fishing_?"

John, and this was rather unexpected, smirked, and elbowed his oldest son's arm. Obediently, Dean lolled his head over in his direction, cracking open an eye. "Is this what I get for trying to be a decent father who only wants for his boys to have the perfect smile?" Dean smacked his lips together, yawning.

"Don't know about that." He admitted, and sat up straighter, stretching out his arms. He rolled either shoulder until it popped, and then worked on cracking his neck. Sam shuddered at the sound, absently cracking his own knuckles. "I'm waiting for the twist on this puppy."

"Dean's convinced that we're in for a hunt, not a routine dental exam." Sam explained, leaning forward. He rested his elbows on his knees. "You should probably unarm him." The blonde shot him a dirty look before kissing one tightened fist at a time, proudly stating, "you can't unarm these babies."

"He's got a point; the only thing thicker and meaner than his right hook is that skull of his." Sam only bothered to half-smile. Six months ago, Dean stupidly tangoed with a vengeful spirit, and ended up making out with the trunk of a tree. The x-ray had been clear of any fractures—but the CAT scan hadn't lacked bruising and swelling.

"Yeah, whatever." Dean threaded a hand through his short hair, and narrowed his hazel-green eyes. "You know, that thing? Talking about me like I'm not sitting _right_ here? It's not nearly as cute or witty as you might think it is, dude." He nonchalantly swept the calloused pad of his thumb over his jaw line.

Sam chuckled, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He parted his lips to continue the conversation, but the cream colored door—which led to the inside the office area—swung open. A curvy, middle-aged redhead walked out, hugging a brown purse to her side. She mouthed, "hello," with a polite smile as she brushed past them.

Dean leaned forward in his seat, and nodded as the green door closed after her. "She's got some nice, strong calves." He acknowledged appreciatively, the corner of his lips curved back. The smirk dropped when he received the same blank look from both his father and brother. "What?" His shoulders rose with the question.

"This is taking longer than I planned." John announced, ignoring Dean's quizzical facial expression. He wiped his palms against his jean-clad thighs, and stood up, practically taking the seat with him. "We just don't have the time or money to waste sitting around here."

"Unless something supernatural is going on behind that closed door." Dean pointed out, even a little hopefully, as he nodded toward the said door. John sighed, bringing his hand to his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose, explaining that dentistry wasn't "the root of all evil, son."

"Well, maybe…" Sam spoke up, wetting his lips hesitantly. "_May_be they found something _wrong_ with the _insurance_." His paranoid gaze flicked over to the other door, where he now expected the feds, who probably have been tracking John's trail of fraud for the past fourteen years, to pour in. "May_be_?" John shook his head.

"Don't get worked up over nothing, Sammy." John stated sternly, and turned around, walking into the receptionist area, the door banging shut behind him. Almost immediately, Dean was standing on his feet, now stretching his arms out over his head. Sam, surprisingly enough, remained seated.

"How're the teeth doing?" Dean's arms fell limply to his sides. He worked his jaw soundlessly, looking away. "Your wisdom teeth, right?" Sam continued, brushing hair out from his eyes. He smiled knowingly. "They're the ones that are bothering you, aren't they?"

Unrelenting, Dean blatantly ignored Sam, and took an exaggerated interest in the humongous picture of that smile. The picture was about four and a half to five feet wide, and three feet in length. What was so disturbing about giant white teeth? Maybe it was the bright red—"_blood_ red?" Dean guessed a loud—lips.

"Think he noticed?" Sam went on, without really even blinking. It was almost as if he were part robot. Dean suggested that to their father once upon a time ago, and he really hadn't appreciated it. "I think so, too. Why else would he make us a dentist appointment out of nowhere?"

With a deflated sigh, Dean sat back down in the chair next to Sam. He just let his body drop, and the chair cracked under his weight. "He's our father, Sam. Making dentist, eye doctor, and physical exam appointments are all part of his job."

"Yeah? When was the last time we had a _physical_?" Dean wrinkled up his nose; during one of their last annual physicals, he _kind of_ threatened the hoary doctor with his pocketknife after he told Dean to "drop your shorts." Since then, John made sure to take his boys to, "friends of the family," for any check-ups.

"You see, Sam, people—they ask too many questions. Give enough to feed their ignorant, inquisitive nature, and don't make them curious, or suspicious." Now it was Sam's turn to wrinkle up his nose. He asked, "what the hell are you talking about?" The moment passed, thus Dean waved his hand, shaking his head. "You'll see."

Finally, the door, which was either an off-white or cream color, opened, and John stuck his head out. Both brothers jumped to their feet before he even said or did anything. The door opened all the way, and a blonde looked at both of them before glancing back down at the chart in her hands.

"Dean? You're with me, and Samuel? A few more minutes; Joan's just finishing up with someone." Dean nudged Sam's shoulder with his as he walked forward, slipping past John, who briefly touched the top of his head, and tersely admonished, "behave." Dean looked behind his shoulder, winked, and reassured him, "_always_."

John grunted, crossing his arms over his chest as he stepped back into the waiting room. He glanced down at Sam, and instantly sighed, uncrossing his arms. Sam had _that_ look on his face, the one where he was about to bombard someone with a load of questions. "Insurance's fine. They're short-staffed today, that's all."

That would do, for now. "What about Dean?" John moved toward the water cooler, probably wishing the cool liquid in it was some strong alcohol, or black coffee. "Dad?" Alas, John was done with questions, and put his hand up.

"Enough." His tone suggested that Sam would want to rethink about doing any backtalk right now. Already sulking, Sam sat back down in the uncomfortable chair, throwing his weight down just as his older brother had done minutes earlier.

Fortunately, the door opened again, and a smiling brunette poked her head out. "Sam? Sam Winchester?" She was shorter than his 5' 9" lanky frame, and her nametag read, "Joan." She wore a white smock decorated with colorful automobiles. Sam stood up hesitantly, suddenly feeling rather young. "Come with me, honey."

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Joan had really pretty eyes, Sam noticed. They were shaped like almonds, and were a deep, almost warm, chocolate brown. Her eyelashes were dark, long, and thick. After a while, he found himself concentrating on a nick in the wall because it seemed odd to stare into her eyes while she cleaned his teeth.

"You take good care of your teeth; just got to remember to floss a bit more." After a few long minutes, Sam no longer found her eyes all that pretty, because she was digging into his gums like she was looking for buried treasure, and it _hurt_. "Rinse." He did, but ended up spitting more on himself than in the stupid bowl.

Damn, maybe Dean was right—maybe dentistry _was_ the root of all evil. He tried not to smile as he pictured Dean trying to cry out, "_Christo_!" as the blonde ripped into his gums. It was a funny mental image, and not all that hard to imagine.

"So, do you go to school around here?" Sam responded in a choking noise because it was hard to talk when someone was jabbing sharp utensils into your jaw. "You look familiar, maybe you go to school with my niece?" Sam dug his fingernails into the padded armrest in frustration, but nodded for the hell of it.

An eternity and a half later, Joan was finished. An x-ray of his jaw that was taken before she cleaned his teeth showed that his wisdom teeth had barely started to grow in. Other good news was that he lacked any cavities, and his teeth were in great shape. Sam brought a hand up to his abused jaw. His _gums_ on the other hand…

"What about Dean?" Sam asked his father the second they stepped out of the room while Joan cleaned up. In Sam's right hand was a plastic wrapped toothbrush. It was purple, and had written directions for use on it. He carried mint-flavored floss in the other hand. It was almost like Christmas.

"Oh, let's just say that he's not very happy right now." That, of course, wasn't enough, and Sam just had to know more. He was like an eager puppy as he asked; "it's his third molars, right?" John half-smiled, patting his youngest son on the shoulder, and nodded. "All four—impacted. Means they're not growing in straight."

Sam opted not to say, "duh, I know what _impacted_ means," and, instead, asked when Dean would have to get them out. He'd totally have to research this more when they got back to the motel. There was no way in hell he was letting some doctor cut into his brother's jaw without knowing _exactly_ what he was doing.

"We have a consultation scheduled for Monday." It was Wednesday. "It'll be decided then." John glanced down at his wristwatch, sighing. "It'll be a miracle if we can make it back in time."

"'_Make it back in time_?'" Sam, with one brow arched, echoed with uncertainty.

"You expect us to sit around in a motel for five days with our thumbs up our ass? Look alive, Sammy, we've got a job to do."

For a split second, the room seemed to slant, and Sam took a deep breath, shutting his eyes tightly for a few seconds. "Yeah, whatever." John's face darkened, but the shorter brunette cut him off from saying anything when he asked, "where's Dean?"

"He, uh." John smiled (and Sam also considered googling 'bipolar' when he got back), tilting his head back. He scratched his neck, chuckling. "He asked the assistant to show him how to floss his teeth—_again_." In unison, the two Winchesters rolled their eyes.

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By late Sunday, the Winchesters were settled at Pastor Jim's house. The hunt had gone well, but not without a few scrapes and bruises. "Just for the night." John promised his dear friend, who insisted they prolonged their stay. "Got a special appointment tomorrow." He nodded behind his shoulder at Dean, and Jim nodded solemnly.

"It'll knock him out for a few days." Jim later told John, as they sat on the priest's porch, drinking warm coffee. The brothers were in the yard, having a snowball fight thanks to the freshly fallen powder. It was only a few inches, maybe half a foot, but it was enough. "He'll be fine."

"Not a doubt in my heart that he won't handle it, Jim; just a few teeth. I won't be surprised if he's trying to snack on solids after the second day." John chortled, taking a swallow from his mug. "I really can't see the boy slurping on jell-o or pudding for too long."

"Hey, old geezers, I can hear _every_ word, you know." Dean pointed out, packing a snowball in his ungloved hands. He continued talking, but after a snowball crashed right above his ear, the conversation was over and Dean tackled his brother to the ground. Sam easily got out of the hold, and pinned Dean down, gloating.

"Old geezers." Jim snorted through his nose, and took a long sip from the mug of coffee he drank from. "Maybe we should turn up our hearing aids, huh?" He then nodded forward, squinting. "Look at 'em." He observed with a ghost of a smile. "Dean'll be graduating in a few months. How does that make you feel, grandpa?"

But John hadn't responded. He, too, stared down at his boys, the sad glimmer in his eyes unenviable, cold, and distant. A fiery passion burned brightly in his eyes as the feeling once known as love tugged at his emotionally and mentally damaged heart. _Mary is going to miss her firstborn's high school graduation._

Mary Winchester would also miss her firstborn's first surgery. It wasn't major, but deep down, John still worried; besides, it was his job to worry. After Sam went to sleep, he'd looked over the websites in the history, and that hadn't done anything to help him, except make him realize what could go wrong. _Watch over him, Mary_.

"Damn you, Sammy. You need to guzzle down more coffee—stunt your growth a little." Dean sat down on the first stair of the porch, rubbing his flushed cheek. Sam took a seat next to him, tugging on the excess fabric at the fingertips of his gloves.

"Coffee doesn't stunt your growth."

"Right now, _you_'re stunting my growth, geek-boy."

"You're pretty much done growing anyway, Dean."

"Yeah, well, I might stop growing, but you can't catch up with me age-wise, smartass." Now, Dean rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "You also can't catch up with me in the looks department, 'cause really dude, you're just getting _dorkier_ looking every damn day."

"Hopefully I'll be just as suave as you someday, Mr. Show-Me-How-To-Floss-Again." The blonde, unashamed, ducked his head, running a hand through his hair.

"If only you knew, Sam." Before Sam could question him, Jim announced that it was about time for dinner, and then John reminded them to get an extra wink of sleep because they had to leave early in the A.M. if they wanted to make the consult appointment on time. "Right. Don't want to miss that."

Sam laughed at his brother's lack of enthusiasm and slapped a hand to his shoulder. "Who knows, Dean, maybe your wisdom teeth will be found out to be the cure for cancer."

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Dean didn't want Sam to step, or be in the proximity, of the room during the consultation. "He's going to _absorb_ every word and ask a _billion_ questions." Dean pointed out to their father, but the waiting room was full (of people, who gave John _those_ vibes), so in came Sam, ordered to keep his mouth shut.

"Have you even been put to sleep before?" The kind surgeon with warm hands and a brilliantly bright smile asked Dean after making him, and his father and brother, watch a ten minute video on wisdom teeth, and about the surgery; what to expect, etc. He also had papers for them to read and sign.

"Uh, like, _medically_? No." He smiled up wickedly at the doctor, shrugging a careless shoulder. Dean had been put to sleep by a spell before, and usually hard blows to the head put him down for a while. Wait, he had also been given strong medication before that, like, totally knocked him out. Did that count?

"It's very simple. I'll just insert an IV before surgery. The whole ordeal—" There was this odd twinkle in his eyes. Dean wanted to punch him. "—will only feel like two minutes for you—about forty-five minutes to an hour to your father." Sam glanced up from his hands, which were folded in his lap, and cleared his throat. "And brother."

"Great." He tapped his fingers. "Yeah, great." The sudden way the blonde narrowed his brow, and leaned forward, almost made John groan. He knew exactly what Dean was going to ask next. "Now, um, _post_-surgery, with the pain killers, what are we talking here?" John rolled his eyes, smiling. Yeah, he knew his boy all right.

The raven-haired doctor answered that he, "usually prescribes Vicodin." Dean's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "You're going to be in pain for a few days." The younger male waved his hand casually. Pain? Yeah, whatever man. He invited Pain over for tea _every_ weekend. "Somehow I think you'll manage through this."

Sam shifted restlessly in his stool-type chair, which—by the way—was padded and kind of… _almost_ comfortable, and leaned against the wall, purposely knocking his forehead to it with a soft _thumph_. He chewed on his thumbnail a few times; anxious, especially when the doctor asked if they (well, Dean) had any more questions.

"I'm good." Dean decided, glancing back at Sam like he knew his younger brother was bubbling with questions. He smirked at him, turning back. He really didn't want to get this done, but he had pretty damn good teeth, and the impacted sons of bitches could ruin that.

"No more questions, Mr. Winchester?" The doctor shook hands with John, who shook his head, explaining that the tape and the pamphlets they were given, "answered enough." Sam rose from his seat in the corner, mumbling, "yeah, and the weeping animated teeth were _so_ insightful." Dean snorted.

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Sam was thoroughly reading through the papers and booklets they were given before even sliding into the backseat of the family's beloved '67 Chevrolet Impala. "It's a good idea the surgery's scheduled for next week; the bottom teeth are growing awfully close to the nerve line." He thumbed through a particular pamphlet.

"Here we go." Dean leaned against the passenger's side door with a long, weary sigh. "Told you we should've left him in the waiting room. A circle of salt would've protected him." He paused momentarily, a slow smile stretching back on his lips. "Except maybe from that crazy eyed dude who smelled like cat pee."

"Oh! Look, it says here you can't wear heavy make-up, tight-fitting clothes, or clogs the day of your surgery. You're just shit out of luck these days, aren't you?" For emphasis, or just to further annoy Dean, he harshly kicked the back of the bench seat, earning a dirty glare. "What? I thought you loved your man clogs."

"Man clogs?" John finally cut in, making a face. "What are _man clogs_?"

"Why, every demon's _much_ needed accessory, _of course_." The oldest Winchester son tried to imagine the scariest demon ever (which had a strange likeness to Celine Dion and Cher)… and then envisioned it wearing sexy man clogs. There was a shriek of, "_fabulous_!" in his mind, and he grinned.

Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, but then cleared his throat, leaning forward. "Shoes are a, um, accessory, Dean?" He peered over at his father, who met his gaze and shrugged, and then over at Dean, who closed his eyes, and mumbled, "shut up."

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"Dad's late." A large, round clock with a dark wood frame hung high on the motel wall, and while Sam's eyes tried not to glance up at it impatiently every few seconds, he heard every damned click. "You have to be there at 9:30, and it's ten _of_." Finally, his eyes shot up, and he huffed out, "make that nine _of_."

Dean was laying sprawled out on one of the beds, flat on his back. He was positioned in the opposite direction and had his head hanging slightly over the edge. "Dude, calm your shit down. He'll—we'll make it in time. Always do." He squinted, scratching his chest through his t-shirt. "Kind of."

"Yeah, okay." Sam managed without rolling his eyes, his tone bitter. He brushed his growing hair out from his eyes, and the middle of the bed, which Dean occupied, dipped as he sat down on the edge. Dean lifted his head up with a questioning grunt. He half-smiled. "Nervous?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, which could've been a shrug. "Should I be?"

"I would."

"Yeah, well, you also get nervous when we pass a carnival, what's your point?" The blonde asked shortly, now propped up on his elbows. "It's not a big deal, Sam; more is risked on a routine hunt." Coincidentally, there have been a few, "routine hunts," where Dean ended up medicated, usually painkillers or antibiotics, for a few days.

There was suddenly a sharp, rhythmic knock at the door. Dean shot up to answer while Sam grabbed their jackets. It, of course, was John, and all he had to do was nod behind his shoulder and they, after checking the salt lines and locking the door, left, the Impala purring, warm and ready.

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The waiting room of the "Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery" practitioners was somewhat fancier than the last waiting room; this one had more literature (Highlights, Sport Fishing, _and_ National Geographic), slightly roomier seats, and a television set mounted to the wall, where the corners met. Alas, sans water cooler. Damn.

Although the appointment was at 9:30, Dean's name wasn't called until at least 10:30. A petite blonde, holding a chart to her chest, bounced out, smiling, though it faded at the sight of the doom and gloom Winchesters. John elbowed Dean. "That's you, buddy."

"So soon?" The nurse laughed, hitting him playfully in the shoulder with the chart as he passed her. With her other hand, she grabbed his shoulder, stopping him, and turning back to John, explaining that he was to come in "just for a moment." As soon as he processed the words, Sam was on his feet.

The room they were stuffed into wasn't all that big. The special chair took up most of the space, along with two cabinets, a sink, two chairs, and a machine or two in the dark corner. Reluctantly, Dean sat down in the chair, but kept his neck, head, and shoulders leaned forward. He nudged Sam's knee with his foot.

"I hope they don't make me scrub off all my make-up." He cracked half-heartedly, only wanting to at least get a smile from his younger brother, but Sam's somber expression remained. John was faced away, rubbing at his growing beard stubble. "Jesus, you two are going to be the life of the party out there."

The blonde hopped back into the room, this time with a friend; another nurse, only older, and with curly, dirty blonde hair. Dean flashed them both a grin, 'cause this was Heaven, baby. Further instructions were given to John (and Sam, who listened intently, nodding at pauses), by the surgeon when he came in.

After they were told to leave, John walked out, while Sam hesitantly hanged back for a moment, and then reached forward, quickly ruffling his brother's short hair. "See you on the other side, Dean." Dean, making a face, questioned, "other side?" Sam gave him that goofy grin. "The recovery room's on the opposite side of the wall."

Oh, yeah. His brother, Sam: the comedian. What a laugh that boy was. He soon disappeared, and the doctor, Dr. Weller, began his IV while a nurse placed something over his nose, and told him to take deep breaths. Soon, but not before he heard a distant, "oops," everything became a blur.

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John Winchester considered himself a patient man. Hell, unsettlingly patient at times, like when he once crouched in the attic of an assumed haunted house from early evening until dawn. Alas, now was not one of those times, as he sat with his youngest son in the waiting room, restlessly tapping his fingers against the armrest.

After fifteen minutes, John suggested they go get some breakfast, maybe at the Denny's down the street, but Sam didn't want to leave, and, since John was Dean's ride, and parent, he wasn't permitted to leave the building. Yeah, he thought that was bullshit, but still had to send Sam to feed the meter.

Sam ended up reading a National Geographic magazine he'd found stuffed behind a torn and scribbled on Highlights. John watched him with a long sideway glance, noticing how he lingered on each page, reading each word, studying each picture.

The television was on, but the volume was thankfully low; some talk show was showing previews of what was coming up after the commercial break. Minutes passed, slowly as possibly, and it wasn't long until John had enough. He reached a hand over, taking away Sam's magazine, hearing an annoyed, "_hey_!" in protest.

"I need you to go back to the car for me."

Sam let out an irritated huff of air. "The meter's good for another hour." He always made sure to keep an eye on stuff like that; the last thing they needed were _more_ tickets. The older male just gave him that look, and he went, "oh," and asked, "what do you need?" He straightened up, mentioning, "no packing, remember?"

"Just get me the hard covered textbook out of the trunk." He tossed him the keys, and Sam caught them one-handed. "Hey. Make damn sure you lock it this time, get me?"

"Loud and clear, sir." The brunette stated, rolling those eyes of his as he turned around. Forget to lock the trunk once—_once_ in your life—and you really will never forget. There were several textbooks—"hard covered," Sam enunciated slowly, stressed with sarcasm—thus, he grabbed the one on top.

So, while Dean was in a medically induced sleep, having four teeth removed, John was reading ("Preparing." Sam realized, John was _preparing_) the book, which was completely written in—go figure—Latin. Sam picked up the magazine he'd been reading, now with wrinkled marks where his father had grabbed it, but kept it closed.

At the forty-minute mark, Sam stared over at the door, waiting for that blonde woman to stick her head out, still smiling, and announce that Dean's in recovery. At the fifty-minute mark, he sat closer to the door, ignoring a look his father shot him. "Come on, come on, come _on_…"

Finally, after fifty-three minutes, the nurse came out. She wore _that_ smile, and told John exactly what Sam had been waiting to hear. He followed his father to the recovery room, where all he saw was three or four empty cots. He wrinkled up his nose, "where's…"

The sight of two nurses, one on either side, helping his brother into the room made Sam's heart skip a beat—or three. Dean's cheeks were puffed out, and there was gauze sticking out of the corners of his mouth. The blonde's eyes were half-closed, glazed over; he looked out of it, like the lights were on, but no one was home.

Dean was set down on the green cot, a pillow placed under his head, and a makeshift icepack pressed to a cheek. A brunette woman, unfamiliar to Sam, sternly stated Dean's name, but Dean barely even blinked. That was, until John said his son's name, and Dean fluttered his eyelids, making an odd sound.

The first (okay, maybe not the first, but it was one of the first) thing Sam noticed was the band-aid on the inside of Dean's left _and_ right arm. He wanted to ask about that, but when the doctor came out to check on his patient, all he really did was repeat the instructions and left.

After John was handed a pile of gauze and an antibiotic and painkiller prescription and once Dean was coherent enough to bat his eyelashes at a nurse, they left. On the way to the car, Dean kept trying to speak through his mouthful of gauze, but John, not unkindly, with a grin, told him to put a cork in it.

"_Mmmph_!"

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Once they got back to the motel, John waited until Dean was seated on a wooden chair to leave to pick up the prescriptions. Sam heard his father's cell phone as he made his way out, and also heard him wait to pick up until the door swung shut behind him. "We'll wait until he comes back with your medication to change your gauze."

Dean knuckled his eyes, mumbling something, which sounded like, "_w'afeh'r_." Sam wasn't positive, but was almost sure his brother's cheeks were starting to swell. He picked up the icepack Dean had been given, and offered him it, wondering out loud if he should make one, too, for the other side. Dean simply muttered another, "_w'afeh'r_."

"Don't speak." There wasn't any room for a cork.

"_Shuf'p_." The blonde wore this scowl, which de-aged him by nearly a decade. He held his arms crossed loosely over his chest; he had rejected the icepack.

"Does it hurt?"

"_Hurph_? Sh_uf'_p _Ha_mm_y_." Despite himself, Sam smiled; the tight ball of anxiety that had riled up in the pit of his stomach when he had first seen his brother was starting to lessen. However, the sight was still tugging desperately on his heartstrings.

"You're already starting to bruise a little." With Dean's already puffed out cheeks he wasn't able to tell if there was any swelling. "Don't forget to bite down, too." In response, Dean stared right past him, eyes blank, but tightened his jaw. "You look tired." The older male looked as if he could nod off in the chair at any moment.

"_Fine_." Well, _that_ came out clear. "'M fine." The corners of his lips were already feeling cracked and sore, although his cheeks, jaw, and tongue were still half numb. Dean hated that feeling, especially when it would start to wear off. He just wanted his Vicodin and to sleep for forty-eight hours. Sam knew this.

"Just wait until dad gets back." The younger brother also had a feeling that Dean wouldn't feel up to a cheeseburger and fries later, so he made a mental note to run down to the convenient store later for something soft, like pudding or jell-o. _He's going to love that_. Sam nearly snorted. Yeah, like a migraine.

The pharmacy wasn't far away; the city they've been residing in for the past few weeks wasn't all that big, though it was loaded with banks, funeral homes, and pharmacies. "This must be where old people flee to die." Dean had earlier commented, adding, "same thing," when Sam told him, "that's Florida." This was Pennsylvania.

The second John stepped foot into the motel room, Sam knew he was going to be leaving in a matter of minutes. His father had a way of looking guilty without actually looking guilty, if that made any sense. He set the medication and a few new papers down on the small table. Dean disappeared into the bathroom.

"Hunt?" Sam asked automatically, still sitting at the table. All he and his brother had done during the fifteen-minute wait was sit there, silent for the most part. Sam would state something every few minutes, and Dean would absently drool, still hunched over.

John looked down for a second, and then placed his cell phone down on the table. It was a bulky phone; Sam hoped that someday they would be smaller. Who knew, maybe someday he'd be able to surf the web or check his e-mail on one! Oh, he could dream. Next, John took out his wallet, and threw down a few bills on the table.

"It's just a day or two." Sam glanced down at the money.

"You've got to be kidding me." Why wasn't this much of a surprise to him? John sighed, irritated, stressing out Sam's first and middle name; he wasn't in the mood for an argument. "No, no, it's fine. Dean and I, we'll be fine." His eyes flicked over in the direction of the bathroom. The door was opened. "Dean probably won't even notice."

John nodded, also looking over at the bathroom. "Right. Just, ah, make sure he rinses, and that he doesn't mix rock salt with holy water when he does." The shorter male nodded, stating surely, "yeah, I'm capable of that." The father nodded with him, telling him, "I know that, and if, for any reason—"

"If, by chance, anything happens, I'll call Caleb, or Pastor Jim." Sam finished, but John shook his head.

"Call me _first_. If you can't reach me, then try them, but I won't be gone long." Something seemed to distract John. He now looked around the room, reminding him to re-salt the windows and door after he leaves. After a few more orders, all of which were daily routines for Sam, he told him, "and watch him, Sammy."

Dean walked out of the bathroom, wearing a weird expression. Two rolled up pieces of saliva-soaked gauze, tinted pink, were in the palm of his opened hand. The slight swelling of each cheek was now visible. "Let me guess, you're leaving to buy me that pony I've always wanted." The way he talked sounded off, almost as if he had cotton shoved in there, too.

John instantly grinned. "You caught me, son." He had no need to explain that he was about to leave; Dean had to have heard him from inside the bathroom. He winked at him, picking his cell back off the table. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Try not to give your brother too hard of a time."

The blonde blinked his bleary eyes. "He won't." Sam tried not to smile; Dean hadn't understood that John was talking to him, youngest son, but that was all right. John half-smiled. There was this unfamiliar glimmer in his eyes… uncertainty, maybe? Sam wasn't sure. He looked up at his father.

"Always, sir." John looked confused for a second, and smiled when he realized Sam was answering him from before Dean entered the room. He gave both brothers a pat on the shoulder, though he gave Sam's an especially tight squeeze, and it was only a matter of seconds before he was on his way—_a_way from his boys.

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

Sam filled a complimentary mug with cool water, and took out a pill from each orange pill bottle. The pain medication, which wasn't Vicodin but a name he was barely able to pronounce, was a light green color, and the antibiotic was a light blue color, and, like the other pill, was oblong shaped.

"This is stupid."

"I know."

Dean looked down at the pills in his hand after Sam handed them to him. He wetted his cracked, dry lips, and then just plopped them right in, swallowing them with a mouthful of the faucet water, which had a weird taste to it. His gums were still bleeding, so he packed more gauze, carefully rolled up thanks to Sam, into both cheeks.

"Thi_th_ i_th_ _th_ill _th_up_id_."

"I still know."

Soon, Dean crawled into bed, one cheek resting against the icepack, which was ice, in a plastic bag, wrapped in a paper towel, along with a new makeshift (Sam Winchester Makeshift™), and that was rested on top of his other cheek. "Only thirty minutes." He warned, proudly earning his third muffled, "shut up."

He thought about turning on the television, but daytime TV wasn't all that grand. Sam sometimes liked to watch all the court shows, but, all of a sudden, he wasn't in the mood for that blatant, overdramatic "he said, she said," bullshit. So, instead, he pulled out a book, one he'd gotten from the library, and decided to read that.

There was a massive furnace on the other side of the room, and while it was on, it wasn't bringing them much heat. The weather outside was cold and windy; there was a draft coming in under the door, disturbing the thin line of salt. That always made Sam paranoid. Never Dean, he'd always fix it, but not now.

Dean, who was lying on his side, had the covers pulled up high. Sam was able to see the tips of his spiked hair. There was sunlight peeking through the window behind him, highlighting his hair, bringing out the blonde. He rolled either shoulder a few times, tugging the covers down to his eyebrows.

Minutes finally seemed to pass effortlessly. Sam sat against the wooden headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The book remained in his lap, and he turned each page gingerly, as if it were wafer paper and would tear easily. The flow of words wrapped around his mind, steadily embracing him, capturing his every interest.

Even more minutes fervently ticked away, and Sam, as if he'd been pricked, suddenly glanced up, a troubled glimmer present in his dark eyes. He dog-eared the page he was on, which was a habit he has been wanting to break, and scratched the back of his ear as he turned his head, looking over at his brother.

Dean was now on his back, the covers far past his tense shoulders. His eyes were still closed, and he would still look as if he were sleeping if it weren't for his furrowed brow. A cramped hand rested upon his stomach, maybe hinting at what was the matter. Sam closed his book, setting it aside for now.

"Dean?" He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, getting to his sock clad feet. The shorter male waved a hand at him, shooing him away before he even could stumble over a few steps. "Everything okay?" A bag of ice had rolled down the pillow, and must've opened, because there was a growing wet spot underneath it.

"Mmhmm." The creases in his forehead were deep with obvious discomfort. Sam frowned, because wasn't the pain medication supposed to be taking care of that? He wondered; had the Novocain finished wearing off? Dean cracked open an eye, and through a sliver of green was a flicker of irritation, though not aimed at Sam.

"Then why don't I believe you?"

"Because you're a neurotic dickhead?" Dean tried to state, but, instead, it had come out in a wordless hum. He shifted around a bit, until the quilt was pushed down below his navel. "Fuck." He cursed, bringing a hand to his mouth, where his fingertips ghosted over the dressing peeking out from the corners of his puckered lips.

"Puck?" Sam mouthed, confused at what he thought he'd heard for a moment. "Oh. Are you—do you need anything?" He smirked at the look his brother shot at him; only Dean could manage to say so much with only one eye opened. "Other than the need to kick my, uh, skinny ass?"

Dean laughed, although it was muffled because of the thick gauze. Shaking his head, he closed that eye, and rolled onto his side, so his back, once again, was facing Sam. He still kept an arm tightly draped around his midsection. He shifted a few more times; getting his cheek back on that icepack, and then went still.

The brunette remained standing for a moment longer, and then sat back down, the springs in the old bed groaning under his weight. He didn't pick up his book, or turn on the television. He just sat there, hands in his lap, shoulders somewhat stooped, watching, maybe waiting. For what? Something, he guessed. Just something.

_Watch him, Sammy._

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

Sam opened his eyes, and it was nearly two hours later. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, trying to figure out when and how he had fallen asleep. He'd woken up, his gangly form curled into a ball, on top of the covers. He palmed a hand to his chin, tilting his head until his neck cracked, and then he scratched the back of his head. "The hell?"

It was now early in the evening, and Dean, currently positioned on his back, was dead to the world. The top cover, at some time, had been kicked down to the foot of the bed, and the sheets were intertwined with his legs. His mouth was wide opened, and there was a trace of slick dribble, which trailed down his chin.

"Kodak moment?" Sam whispered, a twinkle in his eye. He had been careful not to step on a loose floorboard, or shuffle around too nosily, when he stood up, and took a couple of random steps. He now smiled widely at the sight of his brother. For once, his hair remained flat in the front, and stuck up haphazardly in the back.

This stomach then rumbled, reminding him that the last thing he had to eat was a Twinkie from a vending machine, and the cream-filled sponge cake hadn't exactly tasted fresh. "Able to withstand the effects of a nuclear explosion my ass." He'd muttered, recalling the urban myth while gulping down room temperature water.

Dinner sounded pretty good right about now, but Sam stood there, undecidedly, staring down at his big brother. "No warm to hot food, or liquids." He whispered, lightly sucking in and gliding his tongue over his bottom lip. "Ice cream, frozen yogurt, applesauce, scrambled eggs…" Was there even a place that delivered scrambled eggs?

"Maybe I'm better off going to the store." He thought to himself, now biting on his thumbnail. The nearest was a Walgreens. He could almost see into the parking lot from the sidewalk outside of the motel. "Don't want to leave Dean, though." Something told him that he didn't want to drag his incapacitated brother to the store.

"Quit talkin' to yourself." Dean asked groggily, and though his voice was terribly muffled, Sam had heard him clear as day. The older brother sat up, hands eagerly pulling out the soiled dressings out from his mouth. "I'd rather be locked in a cage with thirty vampires and one stake than put this shit back in my mouth." He rubbed a cheek.

Sam clicked his tongue, almost smiling. "There are no such things as vampires." Dean plopped the set of gauze into the plastic trashcan beside his bed, and then glanced up, one brow slightly arched, his eyes somewhat narrowed, and his lips nearly pouted. Now, Sam truly smiled, recognizing his brother's "cranky face."

"Wha'?" A cranky Dean was one of the most frustrating things ever, but a _medicated_ cranky Dean? Perhaps _the_ most… no, no, we'll wait this one out. Sam shook his head, unable to pry his eyes off of Dean's dried up drool-covered chin, asking his brother how he felt. One look at the puffy cheeks, and he made a note to get more ice.

"Those, uh, pain pills, they working?" Dean drowsily blinked one eye, and then the other in response. "I'll take that as a "yes," and, um, your gums? Are they still bleeding?" Dean's beloved cranky face™ amplified, and he shifted away from Sam, old springs protesting, and his knees bent and pointed toward the opposite wall.

"Until you're Dr. Winchester, back off."

Sam nodded, not at all taken back by Dean's harsh tone, but a sly smile that stretched across his face revealed that he had expected it. He slipped a hand into his pant's pocket, pulling out two orange bottles long enough for Dean to see. "Give it four hours; it'll wear off, and I'll suddenly be Sam Winchester, M.D."

"Or Sam Winchester, D.E.A.D." He leaned back, and elbowed the plastic bag of melted ice off the side of the bed. It landed on Sam's feet, spilling open, soaking his gray socks and the surrounding carpet, making the light blue color turn a roguish navy blue. Dean glanced down; lips puckered, his expression reading off a sarcastic, "oops."

"_Jerk_." The brunette stressed out, biting back a groan. He bent over, peeling off his socks, which clung to his feet like wet Velcro. Clutching those drenched socks, he stormed into the bathroom, whipping them into the bathtub before grabbing a towel, all while Dean, with a sly smile of his own, mumbled, "damn dizzy spells."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫


	2. Chapter 2

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

"How can _you not_ be hungry?" Sam had asked, his brain stuck between emphasizing the, "you," or the, "not." He sat perched on his bed, a lucky yellow phonebook, on which his impatient fingers tapped on incessantly, occupying his lap. Dean, while holding an icepack in one hand, patted his abdomen.

"I don't know." The aforementioned teenager admitted with a shrugged shoulder. He toyed with the hem of his shirt before lifting it up to reveal his navel. "It's like it has a mind of its own." Although it was, or at least Sam thought so, cold in the room, Dean had the covers kicked down to the end of the bed, half drooping off.

"I bet." He opened the phonebook to the middle. "How about Chinese? I can order you soup, and you can slurp it later, once it's cooled down and you're famished." Sam wasn't sure if it was the meds that were causing him lose his appetite, or if, by chance, he just wasn't hungry. Yeah, right, definitely not the latter, he decided.

"Order me soup? You mean, like _broth_, right?" He blinked; nodded slowly. Dean had this whole, "bitch, _please_," look going on. "Dude, no, I—just _no_. I don't want freakin' _broth_." He'd lost his lisp, but there was a slight slur starting to escape.

"You're saying "broth," as if I'm suggesting _acid_." The younger brother stated with an exasperated sigh. He flipped through the yellow pages, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Something was bound to stick out.

"You've got acid?" Sam's dark eyes flicked up, and they were void of any amusement.

"No, not _that_… ah, never mind." He thumbed through a few pages, barely even skimming. "This is stupid." One-handedly, he slapped the book shut, allowing it to slip off his lap. It landed on the ground with a dull thud. "Dad should've stayed." He absently nudged the discarded phonebook with his toes.

The older of the two snorted out, "please," as, "puh-lease," along with Sam's name. "I got four freakin' teeth out; it wasn't brain surgery." He sniffled loudly, blinking rapidly. The bruising in his cheeks was starting to darken. "Now, if he _stayed_, that would've been stupid. I'm a big boy, dickweed, and you are, too, kind of, I guess."

The brunette leaned forward on his elbows, his lips slowly stretching back into a smile. There was suddenly a twinkle in his eyes, which seemed to brighten them, and he chuckled ever so softly. "What's that, Dean, finally wising up? Finally admitting that I'm not a kid anymore?"

"You wish." There was a pause, and then a sharply punctuated, "_kid_." He scratched at the top of his head. "Guess that's pretty synonymous with Sammy, huh? That why you act all bitchy like you've got diaper rash when we call you that?"

"_Synonymous_?" Sam repeated, not used to his brother using so many syllables—and that was when he _wasn't_ on any medications. "And I don't act _bitchy_!" His voice cracked comically on the second syllable of the last word. He childishly frowned, grunting, "shut up."

Dean pursed his lips, not wanting to smirk, smile, or grin, _whatever_, just as long as he didn't laugh. He figured if he did _that_, his jaw would just snap off. His jaw was incredibly stiff, but, as a Winchester, it would take more than that to shut him up. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. "Goddamn. I'm thirsty."

Sam jumped up like a puppy that just heard a door open. "Water? We have water—bottled. I'm pretty sure it's not holy water. That'll do, right?" The faucet water tasted funny, but there was only a bottle or two in the kitchenette. "I'll need to get more."

"No, you need to sit your ass down." Dean was on his feet in a second, and sitting back down in two seconds. He blinked rapidly and hard, muttering, "whoa," with a hand to his face. "Tha' was a lot of stars." He admitted, eyes slightly crossed. "And th' stars had _fangs_." He drew out the last sentence in a slur.

Wordlessly, Sam pressed the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. Unfortunately, his hands were cold; the room was still a bit on the freezing side, as the heat (still) had barely kicked on yet. "You _must_ have a fever." He decided. "I don't think seeing vampire stars is a good sign, either, so how 'bout we stay put, yeah?"

"They weren't vampire stars." Dean rubbed a palm over his eye, wondering why his eyelids felt so heavy all of a sudden. His stomach was cramping up, as it had been earlier, which was making him feel nauseous. "Did dance, though." He admitted softly, lying down on his side, an arm curled around his midsection. "Weird bastards."

"Right. I'll go get you some ice, and that water." Dancing fanged stars. With his eyebrows arched high, Sam turned away, clicking his tongue. How randomly bizarre—_but at least he knew to lie back down_, Sam realized, grabbing a water out of the small fridge. _And not to go hunt the_… "Dancing fanged stars." He chuckled.

Dean lifted his head. "Are you making fun o' me?" Sam nearly choked on his tongue, biting back any further laughter. After all, a dizzy-ridden Dean wasn't something to laugh about. But come on… fanged stars! At the disco! "You're making fun o' me!" He dropped his face back into his pillow, which muffled his uttered, "little shit."

"Am not." In one flick of the wrist, he twisted off the bottle's white cap. "On _both_ accounts." He tapped his brother's shoulder blade with the bottom end of the bottle, causing some to slosh over the rim and drip down the side. "Water." He called out loudly, "get'ch your water. Drink it while it's fresh, cold, and not the brown faucet water color."

Like a fish, Dean flopped onto his back, eyes half-lidded, staring up at his brother through long, dusky eyelashes. "It's rust, and drinkin' it builds character." He turned his head to the side.

"Yeah, okay, _dad_." Still grasping the bottle, Sam waited, impatiently tapping his foot. Dean remained inertly prone, though with a noticeable hitch in his breathing. "Come on, you goin' to drink this or what, Dean? I thought you said you were thirsty." He leaned over to see if his eyes were opened. They weren't.

"M' sleeping now, go away. There's probably a wounded possum outside that needs your help."

"I don't need an injured possum, I have you." He pressed the end of the bottle to Dean's ear, which ended with water spilling out when the older brother jerked his head away and blindly threw an arm at him.

"Don't do that." He sounded more awake now. "Wait, are you comparing our everlastin' fraternal relationship t' _road kill_?"

"Um—I, uh." He helplessly shrugged a shoulder, firmly planting down the water on the small bedside table. "Eh. Not metaphorically, or even literally, it was—I was just." Sam let out a humorless laugh, and patted Dean's shoulder, feeling the heat radiating through the thin t-shirt. "You just, ah, go back to sleep. Sound good?"

Dean hadn't answered him; he slipped back off into sleep, which Sam was glad for. He wasn't used to insistent babbling from Dean. It was just a little too much. His brother was only eighteen, and Sam never wanted to get used to seeing him doped from prescribed narcotics. It was unsettling. He hated it.

Sam, while his stomach loudly reminded him of what he was neglecting it, shook his head. Dancing fanged stars. Come on now. He stared at Dean for moment, hoping that he was just, as the blonde would probably put it, "fucking with," him. He reached down hesitantly, softly ruffling the tousled tips of his hair. "Jerk."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

It was raining outside, but it was only a light drizzle. The wind, however, was blowing ominously strong. Sam stumbled down the motel's concrete stairs, burying his hands into the deep pockets of his green and white striped jacket. "How the hell did he convince me to leave?" He asked aloud, grumbling, hair messily in his eyes.

Dean was inside the motel room, dry, warm, and probably watching television. "Dude." He had said, dragging out the vowel sound with a flat sigh. He'd been up for almost a half hour, but was only coherent for less than half of that time. "It's getting late. You're hungry. Just run to the store. I promise not to do anything…"

"Anything…" Sam hastily provided, "_stupid_?"

"My list of 'stupid things to do,' is rather limited right now, in case you haven't noticed." A tanned arm hung over the edge of the bed, fingers inattentively flexing.

The younger sibling snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'll still manage. I didn't _just_ fall off a turnip truck, you know."

"Jesus, how old are you? _Fifty_?"

"The phrase isn't _that_ old."

"Yeah, sure, now get off my lawn, whippersnapper."

"Cute, real cute. How 'bout we go back to shoving that gauze into your mouth?"

Minutes had passed, mostly in silence, but that never was anything new. Sam had begun to rummage through his patched up duffel bag, looking for a book, or anything really, when Dean told him to, "just go already." His voice sounded almost hoarse, and had come out rather wearily flat. "Not goin' anywhere, Sammy."

"That's not…" His voice had trailed off when he turned around, eyes landing on his older brother. Dean had been in a sitting position, his pallor face turned toward the window, and the light caught him gracefully, bringing out his freckles and the green in his eyes. He looked so young. Sam had licked his dry lips, and nodded once. "Okay."

So, now, there he was, wandering into Walgreens, cheeks wet, hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, ears, and back of his neck. There was a tall elderly man behind the nearest register, and he smiled kindly at him, commenting in a soft voice, "some weather we're having out there, huh?"

Dean would've nudged Sam forward, ignoring the old man, mumbling something about old people and the weather, but Dean wasn't here, so Sam's eyes darted around before he matched the smile. "I'll say." The cashier continued to stare at him, almost expectantly. He tried again. "It's, uh, raining cats and dogs out there."

A woman with long, dark brown hair practically jogged to the opened register, balancing a two year old on her hip while pulling a plastic cart filled with items. This took the man's attention away from the Winchester, and to the customer, who he warmly greeted with, "some weather we're having out there, huh?"

In a matter of minutes, Sam was waiting in line, a plastic basket nestled in the nook of his arm. He had grabbed three hoagies (one ham and cheese, the other two turkey and cheese; it was all that was left), strawberry jell-o, chocolate pudding, both already made, a red and blue Gatorade, a pint of Neapolitan ice cream, and a bottle of Pepsi.

"Is that all?" The cashier asked after glancing down into the cart basket. He was teasing, but Sam kept a solemn expression and nodded his head. He could, and would, come back later. The man's nametag read "Greg," in bold, capital letters. He seemed nice, although he was quite the talker. "Having a sleepover?"

"Huh?" Sam dug the money John left out from his pocket as Greg slowly began to scan the sandwiches. "Sleepover?" How old did he look, five? Not that he ever had a sleepover, even when he was younger. John never let him sleep over anyone's house, either. "Um, no. Just a snack, I guess."

"'_Just a snack'_? Your stomach must be a bottomless pit!" Sam forced a smile when the older man grinned, chuckling, because what he said was so freakin' hilarious. "My son, Billy, now he had quite the stomach when he was about your age. Always eating something, that boy." The person behind Sam sighed loudly.

"Wow." The brunette stated unenthusiastically, not bothering to resist the urge to roll his eyes. It was rude, yes, but he hadn't the time to stand there, mindlessly conversing with the employee, who was supposed to be ringing him up, not giving him tidbits from his autobiography.

Outside, the rain hadn't let up. Sam offered one last smile at the cashier as he took his bags from him, but the older man's pale lips remained tightly compressed. He shrugged it off, feeling guilty for insulting him, but he believed he was in the right there. It would still bother him for a while, though.

The walk back to the motel took about four hours, or so it seemed. He had to cross the street, and the stupid traffic just wouldn't let up. The people who hadn't bothered to turn on their turn signal before they turned pissed him off. "As soon as I get home, I'm cursing you!" He almost yelled, remembering when Dean had once said that.

He pushed his body weight heavily against the door after he unlocked it and turned the doorknob. Sam stumbled into the small room, dropping the three bags on the nearest bed with a tired groan. He was freezing and wet from the rain. "Man, Dean, you wouldn't…" He kicked off his boots, trailing off when he saw the empty, unkempt bed.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Dean causally stepped out. "Wouldn't what?" He asked, the tone of his voice meek. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing with the movement. Sam knew something was wrong, and immediately asked him about it. "What, am I not allowed to go to the bathroom when you're not here?"

"You didn't answer my question." He unzipped his jacket, tugging it off in one swift move. He tossed it onto a chair, not caring when it slipped off and fell to the ground. "How do you feel?" The medication would be wearing off soon, and Dean's swollen cheeks were noticeably flushed. "I got you Gatorade, and stuff, like pudding—"

The blonde visibly cringed. "Not hungry, dude. Really."

"Jell-o?"

"What did I just say?"

"It's _strawberry_, Dean." He hissed "strawberry," as if it were gold, and _not_ the fool's kind.

"Goddammit, Sam, I'm—"

"Ice cream!"

"Would you—"

"It has the three flavors! You _like_ that kind, remember?"

"I'm not—"

"_Please_." He reached into a white bag, and pulled out the small carton of ice cream, and held it out, his eyes wide and pleading. His facial expression relaxed and softened, and his lips even sort of pouted. "You need to eat _something_. A little something, okay? Please, for _me_, Dean?" Oh, yeah, he knew what cards to play.

Dean sighed, defeated at last, although he had yet to reach for the ice cream. "Should've sold you to the circus after you grew half a foot over the summer."

"Oh, yeah, _puberty_? I'm such a _freak_."

"I hear clowns like 'em tall."

"Shut up."

"And brunette, with long girlish hair."

"Just _wait_ until the next time we have to get on a _plane_." Sam pushed the small carton of ice cream into his brother's hands.

Reluctantly, Dean accepted it. "Shut up."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

It was after midnight, and Sam's eyes popped open. He propped himself up on an elbow, squinting over at the alarm clock's glowing red digits for the time. It was five after one in the morning. He let out a sharp, long breath of air and collapsed back down, mind set on more sleep, but that thought was instantly lost ten seconds later.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam hadn't even realized that it was shut, or that Dean wasn't sleeping either. Whatever, he thought to himself, relaxing into the sagging mattress, eyes now closed. Suddenly, he heard an odd, rasping sound, and staggering footsteps. He shot up, his brother's name readily on his lips.

Dean stood in front of the doorway, slightly bent over at the waist. He tried to say something, but it came out as a weak groan. A curse flew out of his mouth, clear as day. He swallowed a few times, blinking hard, a hand clutching at his abdomen through his t-shirt. "I feel… it… my stomach… like that one time… in Mexico."

Sam had scrambled out of bed, kicking to loosen the white sheets that had wrapped lovingly around his long legs. "Dean, god, Dean—what?" He clapped a hand lightly to his shoulder, bending over so that he was face-to-face with him. "That time in Mexico?" He asked, confused, his mind suddenly blank.

The shorter male sounded breathless. "The… all you can eat… buffet." His voice faltered on the last word, and Sam's eyes widened as he quietly asked, "the time you got food poisoning?" Dean nodded, grimacing. "You and… dad told me not to eat the shrimp, but fuck, it tasted good." Yeah, at the time.

"We were in Mexico. In July, and they weren't even kept on ice—wait, you feel like you have food poisoning? All you had was the ice cream, and some Gatorade."

"Felt sick… since this afternoon." He admitted, trying to straighten up. Dean took a few deep breaths, but ended up gagging, and groaned, "oh, god, I'm goin' to… goin' to… _Fuck_." Quicker than lightning, Sam grabbed the garbage bin by the bed, getting it to his brother just in time.

Three heavy waves of nausea tore Dean apart. He gagged, and then spit into the trashcan, wiping his chin and mouth with the back of his hand. His face was flushed, and his eyes were rimming with forced tears, which he quickly wiped away. For several seconds, he remained still, eyes wide, tense, but then moaned, cursing. "My _mouth_…"

"Are you…?"

"_Fuck_, that hurt, fuck. _Sonofabitch_."

Sam, all of a sudden, felt sick, too, but still held up the trashcan, his hands shaking. "Maybe I should call dad." He suggested, waiting and wanting to see the action to his statement because that would help him determine how badly Dean hurt, but his brother ignored him, rubbing his bruised cheeks.

"Feels like I tore my freakin' stitches." He hissed to himself, turning away, stumbling into the bathroom. He let out another curse, stomping a foot. "Do _not_ want to do that again. Jesus Christ." The pain that had flared up in his gums hurt, and ached through the medication he had taken with Gatorade. "I'm not taking that shit again."

The younger brother was still holding up the plastic bin as Dean stood in front of the mirror, mouth opened, looking for any bleeding. "I—uh, what shit? The pain medication, that shit, you're not taking it again?" He asked skeptically, and confused.

"The antibiotics—that stupid pill. Yeah, that's what made me feel like shit." He looked around for a cup to rinse out his mouth. God, he hated throwing up.

"The hell, Dean? You _have_ to take it, or else you'll get an infection." Now, Sam put down the trashcan, holding his breath. He set an impatient hand on his hip.

"I'm eighteen, dude. I don't have to do anything I don't want to." Dean flung open the medicine cabinet, making a face at what people before them had lazily shoved into there before. Condom wrappers, possibly used tissues, an empty toothpaste tube… a stretched out, maybe used condom. "Ugh." Bile rose in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, well, according to dad's insurance, you're _seventeen_." Dean's narrow shoulders rose with each deep breath he took. His lips looked more pink than usual, and there were beads of perspiration on his brow. Sam thought he looked younger—in a childishly stubborn way—but maybe that was the lighting. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure I'm eighteen."

Sam rolled his eyes. He liked to give sarcasm, not take it. "Kudos." However, he shrugged a shoulder, failing to look nonchalant. "But whatever, man. You don't want to take it, fine. Am telling dad, though." His tone changed at the end, as if telling their father was a threat. "You know he won't like it." Oh, it was.

"Forget it." Dean muttered, stalking past his brother, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just doesn't understand." The room was so small, and he was beginning to feel so big, so claustrophobic. "I need to lie down." His jaw was aching, and the throbbing pain infuriated his headache. His mouth also hurt, especially around the corners.

Sam frowned, feeling a bit pissed off, albeit guilty. "Dean, I—"

"'Night, Sam." Dean was already pulling back the single sheet that remained on the bed. The younger brother sighed, defeated, and tied up the bag of his brother's vomit. There was a wooded area behind the motel, so he carelessly tossed it out the bathroom window.

Before climbing into bed, he set down the two pill containers on the nightstand beside Dean's bed. The older sibling was on his stomach, but he was facing away. His eyes were closed, maybe a little too tightly. Sam, biting back words, turned away, hands cold, mind troubled. "Good night, Dean."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

"Why's the inside of your elbow bruised on both arms?" It was random, but Sam had just re-noticed the brown band-aids when Dean, with a yawn, stretched out his arms. Dean flicked a glance at him, verbally unresponsive. Sam, however, waited patiently, sniffling. He pulled the quilt tightly around his shoulders. "Aren't you cold?"

Dean, who still had only the sheets left on the bed, ignored the last question. "'Oops.'" He stated, wetting his lips. He inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a quick sigh that almost sounded like a gasp. "That—" He stated, raising both brows. "—Was the last thing I heard before getting knocked out."

"What does—?" Sam squinted and rolled onto his side.

"Doc screwed up putting in my IV the first time, Mr. _M.D_." The older brother sarcastically stated, grunting as he sat up. He pulled off each band-aid in a haste movement. The skin the bandage had covered was deeply bruised, although his left arm's bruise was much bigger. "Oh, that's lovely. To match my face, I guess."

"Eh, no, not really. They're not swollen." The younger sibling pointed out with a wry smile. "Don't give me that look, if you bothered to ice—"

"Enough words, dude." Dean swallowed thickly, standing up, his feet moving before they even hit the ground. A weirdly pitched sound erupted from the back of his throat and he closed his eyes tightly, seeing brightly exploding stars over a red tinged background.

"Maybe you should sit down—"

"Why, you goin' to piss fo' me, Sam?" The blonde loudly snapped out, hands clenched into fists, his words in a stumbled smear.

"That's not physically possible, so, no." Cautiously, like an idiot tiptoeing through a bear's pen, Sam, who had gotten up seconds earlier, put a gentle hand on his brother's arm. He wrapped his fingers around his elbow loosely, considerate of the ugly bruising, and sucked in his upper lip between his teeth.

"Hands _off_." Dean cracked open an eye when Sam placed a firm hand on his lower back in a rebellious response. "I _knew_ you were attracted to me."

"You bet. Like a moth to fire."

Dean opened his other eye, eyebrows slightly rising. "Jesus, when you'd get so mouthy?" Seemed like only yesterday Sam would whine, as if totally disgusted, "_am not_!" Hell, Dean scratched the back of his head. Maybe that _was_ yesterday. Shit, what day was it, anyway?

"No idea where I got it from." Sam admitted, feigning uncertainty. He smiled slyly as Dean, who felt like he suddenly aged by over half a century, sat back down. "Not a flippin' clue."

"_Flippin'_?"

"Sorry." He cleared his throat. "_Fucking_."

"That's my boy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

"Hey now, don't make me wash your dirty little mouth out with soap."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

Sam was at a loss as to how someone with a mouthful of stitches could talk so freakin' much. Intervals of mindless prattling sliced through the unsettling silence; when the older sibling wasn't snorting his ass off, he was talking—not just _talking_ but actually babbling on and _on_. Damn, maybe that stupid silence wasn't so unsettling.

The medication made Dean drowsy, or, in Sam's eyes, inebriated. "Sort of reminds me of last summer, when you got drunk." Sam reminisced, but only once he was sure Dean was asleep; the evened breathing and light snoring confirmed it. He smiled as he verified, "for the _first_ time. You babbled a lot, and then passed out."

He blinked a few times, hands twisted under the covers. He pressed his cold palms to his warm, soft abdomen. Yeah. Right. It seemed funnier at the time; a drunk, seventeen year old Dean—_haha_? Not so much, Sam suddenly realized, thinking back on it. Great parenting, John.

John's ears must've started to ring because not five minutes later, the motel phone was dancing off the hook. Dean made a slight noise in annoyance as he rolled onto his back. "Don't you move another muscle, I'll get it." Sam announced, a small hint of sarcasm in his voice. Dean idly waved a _fuck off_ hand at him.

It, as previously stated, was John, who was finally calling to check up on his eldest son. "He givin' you any trouble?" Sam opted not to tell him about Dean's refusal to take the antibiotics. He figured that maybe, later, he could change his brother's mind, so he stated, "all is well, sir."

Twenty-two seconds after Sam hung up with John, the phone rang again, and this time it was the surgeon's office. A receptionist (maybe a nurse? Sam had no idea) was calling to check on Dean, and the younger brother warmly smiled. He thought that was nice of them.

"My dad? He's not here—he left, like, two minutes ago, to, you know, pick some stuff up at the store for Dean." He answered without hesitation when asked about John's whereabouts. They started to say they would call back in a while, but Sam cut them off, honestly telling them about how Dean was feeling.

Fortunately, Dean wouldn't have to continue taking the antibiotic pill since it made him sick. Instead, he was to, starting as soon as possible, rinse his mouth out with saltwater every three hours. Sam, aloud, repeated the instructions once he hung up the phone, waiting until he heard the sharp click. "Not too bad, right?"

Dean flopped over onto his back, wearing an expression that quite easily read, "I've had more fun getting a filling done." He remembered, during one appointment a few years ago, they hadn't given him enough Novocain before the dentist started drilling. Damn, Dean suddenly wondered if he has ever gotten any dental work done without "opps" being said.

"So, when's that supernatural aspect of this coming to play?" The brunette teased as he, all of a sudden, thought back to how sure Dean was that something hunt-worthy was going to come out of all this.

"_Humph_."

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

"You're hurting." Sam, ever so causally, told to his brother after he had gurgled the saltwater for the second time that day. Dean just looked at him, his brow twitching uneasily as he shrugged a tense shoulder, stating that he was, indeed, "fine." Sam wasn't convinced, only skeptically suspicious. "I don't get it, you're _turning down_ medication—_painkillers_, man?"

"Quit lookin' at me like you're searchin' for a lobotomy scar." He started to speak again after a short pause, but stopped abruptly, wincing as if he had stepped on a nail. "Shit, dude, come on." He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then made a face at the smear of red on his hand. "I keep biting my stupid freakin' cheeks."

Sam winced in sympathy. "Then don't talk?" He hesitantly suggested, wincing again as he stared at his brother's plump cheeks, which were unusually shiny like a black eye and decorated with a streak of ripe bruising. When Dean looked up at the ceiling, rubbing a cheek with a cranky scowl, Sam saw that even his neck had slight bruising. "Damn."

"Bet you're lookin' forward to this, huh?"

"Oh, totally. Already have it scheduled."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Your wisdom teeth haven't even started growing in yet." With a perilous flash in his eyes, Dean shot a look at Sam when the taller male unexpectedly grinned, and asked, "jealous?" Little brothers—_yeesh_. "Insanely." He mumbled with sarcasm, wrinkling his brow.

"It's been eight hours, Dean. You can take another pill, you know."

"What the hell? Why are you keeping track—making a schedule or what, dork? This isn't your job." Oh, wow. Sam hitched up his brows, his mouth soundlessly working out, "defensive much?"

"What the hell's the matter with you?" was what Sam wanted to say, but instead he moved toward Dean, leaning in real close, his index finger rested against his chin. Maybe the surgeon _had_ confused "impacted teeth surgery" with "lobotomy procedure." "Huh—there's _got_ to be a scar—ah, well, stitches, not a scar."

"I take back that dork and raise you a _get the fuck out of my face before I_—"

"Puke again?" Judging by the glare that foreshadowed a slow, torturous and exceedingly painful death, Sam decided to zip it and back off. He offered his brother a wide and incredibly forced grin. Wordlessly, he shuffled around, holding out a tiny pill and a half-empty mug of Gatorade to his older sibling. After another glare, he set the two items on the nightstand and stepped back, hands clasped behind his back.

"I don't need a nurse—or a _butler_. Just a brother's fine, man." His face hardened as he spoke, and he looked longingly at the tempting pill before leaning over and swallowing it dry. Feeling Sam's eyes glued to him, he picked up the navy blue mug and brought it to his mouth, resting his lower lip against the sweetened rim. He titled his head back, but just barely, and a small calm wave of the blue juice splashed against his lip. "There's somethin' seriously wrong with a person when their brother's sick and all they want to do is—"

"Be a hypocrite?"

Dean wrinkled up his nose. He knew what he meant, but ignored it anyway. "Why Sam, I don't think you're a hypocrite. Well, _much_ of one anyway." The gene sort of ran in the family. John's side, presumably; they got their "good" genes only from their mother's side, or, at least, that was what Sam had joked once. Neither John nor Dean had laughed.

"Right." Sam muttered, rolling his eyes. He fished around for the remote control in his bed for about a minute before turning on the television manually. He turned up the volume before he took a seat at the end of the bed, hunched over, elbows rested on his bony knees. "I hope a good movie's on." Something distracting, he meant, and Dean knowingly nodded. He cleared his throat.

"There's a Blockbuster down the street. Why don't you go rent us a movie? Or four?"

Sam hesitated. "But—"

"You're fourteen. Sammy. I think you can handle it." Then he asked voice coolly even, "don't _you_?" It was a dare, a dirty, _dirty_ dare. Sam wanted more freedom, more responsibility, and here was his brother, dangling it in front of him.

"What if dad calls?"

Dean leaned back, one arm causally folded behind his head. "Run? Pack, too. Double protection. If anything or anyone's going to take you out, I don't want it to be a hungry hobo with Scope and a sharp stick."

"What if it's a hungry possessed hobo with…" Realizing how ridiculous it sounded, Sam made a face, continuing, "_Scope_ and a sharp stick?" What the hell?

"Dude, do you want to go or not?"

"What if…"

"You know what? Forge' _it_." In the snap of a finger, Dean was back to slurring, which was harder to notice since his speech was already muffled enough as it was. The Winchester looked exhausted and quite moody as he stared at Sam through half-shut eyes. Sam let out a long, low sigh, shaking his head. His brother made a small scoffing noise, as if to say 'I knew it,' and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. Sam stood up, eyes darting around the floor in search of his sneakers.

"Anything in particular you want to watch?"

Dean lifted up his head. "Dude, just don't get another foreign movie." Sam shoved his bare foot into the laced-up sneaker.

"_The Care Bears Movie_ it is. I know how giddy the Care Bear Stare makes you. Just imagine how much _more_ you'll enjoy it when you're _actually_ stoned."

"Piss _off_."

"'_Pith_ off'?" Sam questioningly mocked, throwing back his head with a loud laugh. He was lucky to make it out the door before the Bible kept in the small nightstand between the beds struck him in the back of the head.

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

Twenty-five minutes later, Sam was back, knocking on the door because he had forgotten his key. "I got _The Silence of the Lambs_—" He waved it in front of the peephole. They had already seen the movie once or twice, but Sam liked Sir Anthony Hopkins and Dean thought Jodie Foster was hot. It was a movie they both would agree on, even if for different reasons. "—And _Batman Forever_." They had caught some of it on TV once, before John shut it off because they had to go desecrate a grave and do some salting and burning with a corpse. Fun.

"That's _it_?"

"Blockbuster is _family-oriented_, Dean. No porn for you."

"Could've at least gotten _Titanic_."

"What? Why? Does the heart-breaking, romantic story of a rich girl and a poor guy on the ill-fated ship put you in the mood?"

"No. There are boobs in _Titanic_. _Naked_ boobs, Sammy."

Sam wanted to say something—really, there were hundreds of remarks bouncing up and down on his tongue, but he shook his head and swallowed thickly. "Whatever." The removal of his brother's wisdom teeth actually seemed to have de-aged him. "What do you want to watch first, _Lambs_ or _Batman_?"

Dean tugged down on his bottom lip, peeling off the dried and cracked skin. Jodie Foster or Nicole Kidman? "Batman." He took the VHS tape from him. "Next we're watching _The Shining_." The 1980 Jack Nicholson movie was the only movie they owned. Dean had taken it from a garage sale. He had only wandered into the yard for the free lemonade that was being passed out. Sam made a face; it wasn't his favorite movie, but he agreed, hoping Dean would be sleeping before the Batman movie ended.

Of course, there was no such luck. Just before the credits started to roll, Dean was already reaching for his beloved tape. Sam, who was lying prone on his bed, groaned into his pillow.

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

John came back the next day, arms full of KFC. Caleb had called him about a hunt, presumably werewolves, but he'd hesitantly turned it down. "Right now I need to get back to the boys." He knew Dean would be fine—Sam would hold it against him if he went out on another hunt. Hell, he even came back early—skipped out on drinking. "I'm home." He announced, grinning as he set the food down on the table.

Dean was sprawled out on his bed, head tilted back and eyes closed. The only light turned on in the room was from a bedside lamp. Sam was sitting on the opposite bed, reading. He ignored his father, but glanced up once he caught a whiff of the food's mouth-watering aroma.

"How's your brother?" He asked his youngest son quietly. Sam folded in the corner of the last page he read in his book before tossing it aside. His stomach growled, mind caring more about food than the book for now.

"Insufferable as always." Dean answered for him, propping himself up on his elbows. The swelling in his face had gone down a little. His speech wasn't any clearer, even without gauze in his mouth. "What did you bring me?"

"Mashed potatoes and gravy." He ignored the eye roll from his oldest son. "I need to go put some gas in our girl—I'll be back in a few minutes. No feeding scraps to Dean. Got me, Sam?"

"Dude, I'm not a dog."

"I won't. I don't feel the need to watch him choke today." He also wasn't in the mood to hear Dean bitch after tearing out his stitches. He wasn't letting his brother _near_ a chicken wing. John left and Dean glared at his younger sibling.

"You just wait, Sam. You think you look goofy now? Just wait 'til your face swells up."

Sam went through the bags, carefully taking out the food. It was still hot. Usually food was cold by the time John got it to them. "Yeah, yeah, you're too sweet, Dean." He wasn't worried about when his time would come.

"I don't know. Maybe a bigger face will make your huge fro look less stupid." Sam whipped around, tossing a plastic spoon at his brother. It bounced off Dean's chest.

"I do not have a _fro_!"

"Man, how do I put up with you?" Dean asked, shaking his head as he sat up, crossing his legs. He nodded his brother a thanks when he was handed a Styrofoam bowl of mashed potatoes and a smaller bowl of gravy, which had a biscuit soaking in it.

Sam took out an extra crispy chicken leg and sunk his teeth into it. "You're a regular ol' saint, Dean." He sarcastically admitted through a mouthful of chicken. Dean absently stirred his biscuit around in the pool of gravy.

John was back a few minutes later. They all ate in silence as the news played on the television in the background. Within 48 hours they'd be back in the Impala, driving God knows where. Dean loudly slurped on his gravy. Sam narrowed his eyes at him. Dean continued to slurp even louder. Everything was okay for now.

▫▪▫□■□▫▪▫

Everything's mostly from experience. Especially the "opps" part. Oy.


End file.
